


Risk ratio

by withered



Series: Tinker and Spy [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26272882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withered/pseuds/withered
Summary: Bond is dangerous.Never to England. Never to the Crown. Never to MI6.But everyone else is in the blast zone.Q included.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Series: Tinker and Spy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2117562
Comments: 32
Kudos: 251





	Risk ratio

It goes like this:

Despite the chaos of his job, and against all manner of safety, Q has a routine.

In his defense, it isn't a routine that very many people are aware of. He's been careful, in that respect. But nurturing some semblance of stability of any kind is an expected and necessary coping mechanism, and with his penchant for nicotine just barely curbed it would do him well to avoid any other kinds of harmful addictions. Lord knows his life-span's been shortened as it is with his chosen career path, Q absolutely refuses a mundane end to his very colourful life if it can be avoided, and alcohol poisoning is one such a death he'd rather not court.

Nonetheless, his version of stability, of routine, isn't exactly. Safe.

Oh, his location is certainly secure, thanks to his personal efforts to overhaul and upgrade MI6's security protocols. Just half a step below his own system at home.

And he's definitely not doing something that would be termed dangerous, even in his line of work.

He's just repairing tech, specifically the metaphorical blades of the United Kingdom's darkest knights: fastening hilts, sharpening edges, ensuring the balance; burning out what was broken and reforging into something new, something better. It's a task that would be tedious, if it didn't lend itself to a calming, almost meditative state.

It's why he hasn't charged any underlings to the work in his stead citing more important matters. 

After a busy day saving the world three times before lunch, Q likes the comforting hum his mind goes under as he passes his fingers along the different components of the various weapons strown about his work bench, muscle memory making the movements practiced, fluid and exact. He could do any number of the things required in his sleep. Sometimes, it feels like he does.

It's different when he's coding, swimming deep into oceans of data. He's lost to the binary and machine language, the flow of time. But like the butterfly effect, one unintended ripple could send hurricanes everywhere. With that amount of power, Q doesn't allow himself the carelessness unless he's in the loving, solitary embrace of a closed network and even then, he's much more practiced at losing himself to this:

Before there were computers in Q's life, there'd been locks and cars and guns.

There's something very soothing about the physicality of what he does in this room, the tangibility of the moments spent here.

Grip. Chamber. Sight.

He might not be a Double-O, but he can appreciate the clean lines of what becomes extensions of them in the comforting weight of the handle, the balance of the barrel and the heat and speed of the bullet when it leaves the chamber.

It's often said that there's not much sophistication that can be applied to a gun, and indeed, there are certainly better, more efficient methods of destruction, but Q enjoys their simplicity, relishes in the opportunity to push the boundaries of what is possible within the seemingly limited confines of their deceptively fragile frames.

Q thinks that Bond is of the same opinion about him.

It goes like this:

After Bond returns from wherever far flung destination requires his particular brand of mayhem, he comes to Q-Branch to return his tech.

Or rather what remains of it when he's in the mood to return anything at all.

Q will tsk and scold and throw all the toys out of his cot, as Bond will say, always quick to make some comment about Q's youth.

They'll exchange barbs and sharp words until whatever clings of the mission is jarred loose, and all that remains for Bond to do is shrug it off like a coat that's displeased him somehow and no longer deserves to be worn.

Q knows when this moment happens because the light will change in Bond's eyes, the result of his smirk starting to soften and warm, the glacial blue of his gaze melting from the rings of the pupils outwards. Q knows this because he's observant. A fact that results in his current predicament, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.

The point is that Bond uses Q as a mirror of sorts, a reminder that he is not whoever he had pretended to be for the beautiful and deadly people he beds and kills. And Q is alright with that.

Bond is allowed his coping mechanisms just as Q is.

Besides, as the superior in his domain, Q can't actually terrorise those under his command. It's unprofessional.

Bond, on the other hand, seems to enjoy that sort of thing.

When Bond isn't so mission fresh that Q can almost smell the recycled air on him from his recent flight, after a shower and a change in suit because unless he's naked, he's never out of reach of one, Bond returns to the bowels of Q-branch around the time Q is indulging in his routine, and slinks into the room to watch his quartermaster take things apart and put them back together.

Q knows this because he can feel Bond's very presence like the gun Q holds in his hand. 

He won't pretend it doesn't unnerve him a little.

Agents are like cats, they leap at any sign of weakness, and while Double-Os are the deadlier sort they're also trained and experienced enough to know that observation is far more beneficial in the long run, choosing to channel their particular brand of focus on dissecting whatever prey has had the misfortune of catching their eye.

For Bond, apparently, it's Q.

It goes like this:

Q thinks it's a phase.

He remembers what the former M had told him about Bond. That he's clever and resourceful, ruthless and devoted; a right pain in the arse on any day ending in 'y', but one of the best agents in her Majesty's arsenal.

Bond, M had warned Q before he was Q, is dangerous.

More dangerous than even the others, though lord knows there weren't any words in the dictionary to explain exactly why when the whole lot of them were killing machines in beautifully crafted person suits.

It's because Bond can kill quieter than the others can walk, the techs and handlers will say with a shudder that seems pulled from the very core of their bones.

It's the way he can so seamlessly become the center of attention or the shadow along the wall, a number of MI6 staff say, often startled by Bond's sudden appearances and disappearances throughout the building.

It's in the look of his eyes sometimes, Moneypenny says. And Q can't tell if it's awe that tinges her words or a caution that suggests there's something even she is missing and can't make sense of.

All of these are possible answers, and any one of them would reveal how unsettled Bond had made even the former M, something she could never allow.

But Q concludes that it couldn't have been the case, if only because M had been a former Double-O herself, and anything Bond could do, she'd already done it in heels and with less respect afforded to her at the task.

However, Q decides that he'd been warned about Bond specifically because the man is a bloody menace.

Q hasn't had a moment's peace since Bond had started joining Q in his routine.

He struggles to fall into that comforting lull that comes with the assembly of the weapons returned to him, and he's been tense about it for weeks even though Bond's done nothing the entire time, watching Q in a way that shouldn't make Q's neck feel warm but does.

It goes like this:

To the surprise of absolutely no one, Q is attracted to Bond.

Everyone is, at some point. It's a rite of passage, almost. Even those who claim to be tragically heterosexual will claim Bond as an exception, their "if it had to be a guy".

Q has no such compunctions, and Bond knows it.

Because Bond, damn him, seems to know just about every inconvenient thing about Q that hasn't been redacted and sealed in his employee file.

Like the fact that he enjoys Scrabble -- hence Q's favourite mug. How Q likes his tea -- hence why Q's favourite underling, and Bond's regular handler when Q isn't available, always makes it when Bond isn't loitering in Q-branch. The way Q needs his routine like he needs his cigarettes after a long day -- hence why no one's ever interrupted him while he's fixing tech because Bond's been there almost every time since Q has become Q, and despite everyone being attracted to Bond at some point in time, everyone is also scared of him.

This, Q is not as surprised with as he should be.

Being both terrified and turned on by James Bond is an occupational hazard.

It goes like this:

Bond is a force of nature that MI6 has somehow managed to wrangle into a bottle, and that bottle is almost always at the point of breaking.

It's an unsurprising discovery given the nature of his job as England's most destructive weapon.

The question is, however, how one goes about containing it.

This was something Q had to figure out the day he'd had the misfortune of having the former Q -- insufferable, uninspired, politically ambitious relic that he was -- attempt to knock the man who would be a better Q -- who'd be an upgrade in every way -- off the proverbial pedestal after he'd managed to gain an audience with M herself when he'd been less than a month fresh from MI6's recruitment.

Q -- the current -- had been ordered to handle Bond at what was likely his most awful of tempers.

The water cooler gossip was that it had been because of a woman.

It was that time of the year, was the guess. An anniversary of sorts.

But the matter at hand was this:

There was a city half on fire while the other half's most brutal was gunning for the agent's bollocks. Q could only be so sympathetic.

"Put your bloody back into it," he'd snapped. "Are you even trying, Bond?"

"Careful, pup," the agent had growled. "I can ruin your entire life."

And Q had snarled, "You'd have to be alive to do that, and I don't fancy your chances, not if you intend on ignoring me. You may be the one of the ground, but I've got eyes on every camera and a finger on every switch. Get moving or I'll be enjoying a 360 degree view of you getting your arse kicked."

"Is that so?" Is the drawl that's edged with something feral, and unlike the coat Q helps him to shed now, this one was something Bond slipped on; familiar and favoured.

Within the span of twenty minutes, Bond had laid waste to his enemies in a stunning display of violence.

And when Bond is smirking at a camera, a challenge in his eye that Q can clearly see even with the grainy quality, Q had scowled. "Why the hell did I have to waste my breath when you could've done that sooner, you prat."

And Bond had laughed, and M had called Q into her office for the second time, and that had been that.

He doesn't get saddled with Bond again until Q is Q making the entire conversation with M seem premature indeed, but it isn't like he's deprived of Bond entirely.

He hears rumors. He reads the reports. He fixes the guns. He collects the intel.

He doesn't see Bond in person until the National Gallery.

But that doesn't mean Bond doesn't see him.

It happens like this:

Bond is inherently selfish.

He often experiences the worst humanity has to offer each other, dining at the horsemen's table as an honoured guest: Across from him, always, Greed gluts themselves on life, money and power while Pestilence weaves lies and truth in toxic tales with a twinkle in their eye. War sits to his right, guides his attention from one end of the spread to another as Death sits at the head of the table, politely asking between a dab of the napkin against their lips, "Have you had enough?"

The answer is always no. No he hasn't.

Survival is a beast Bond has fed from the day his parents died to the day he declared his life forfeit in the name of Queen and Country.

Bond knows his will be short, and so he lives it, indulging where he can in the things that remind him that the beast he has fed has served him well, and he will hunt again.

He celebrates with beautiful things as if to make up for the bad: in women and men, and liquor, in fine clothes and flashy cars and places where he is allowed to forget for a moment, just one, that he is alive, and doesn't regret it.

He's insatiable for it.

Hungry, always.

Even when he'd forgotten.

Even when he'd wanted to forget.

But that boy in his ear had told him to put his bloody back into it, and the beast had roared it's agreement.

Bond had been furious because he'd been so close to going out in a blaze of glory but he's already backing away from the edge, and it's too late now.

Despite his gratitude, Bond intends to keep his word to the voice that had demanded he fight for his life, to ruin him, and Bond has every intention to.

They call him R because just as Bond's life is forfeit to England, so is his, identity included.

He's brilliant, that much is obvious even at a distance. He terrifies his immediate superiors with his skill the same way Bond does, wrapped in a package that's enticing in ways that Bond isn't.

When Bond wishes to be seen, noticed; he exudes predator, sex appeal, danger. At a flip of a switch, a drop of a hat, Bond can be whoever they want him to be, whoever he needs to be.

He is what Bond is not: he does not hide, but he also does not peacock, he simply is, taking up space that is owed and expected; nothing more, nothing less.

The R who will be Q knows who he is, and he's quick and cunning and fearless, and if Bond has a type, he freely admits his faults.

Besides. The man who will be Q is beautiful, and it's no secret that Bond enjoys beautiful things.

In the years that pass, watching Q through the glass walls of the lab he works in to puzzle together what aids the Double-Os in their havoc, Bond finds himself calmed with every confident, careful flick of Q's fingers.

If there were music playing, it wouldn't be out of place to think that Q was coaxing it, a conductor in front of his devoted orchestra.

It becomes no less hypnotizing to watch him work when he takes up the post he was meant to. Now, Bond simply has a reason to get closer than he's already been, and Q, none the wiser, let's him.

Bond's in too deep, he knows.

He doesn't do this sort of thing for anything more than a warm body beneath him, and even then, this would be too much.

Watching Q as he does -- in a routine composed entirely of learning the man, memorizing the subtle sway in his hips and the flutter of his hands, thinking of him in this lab when Bond is far from home -- does not bode well.

Not when Bond hears Q's voice demanding him to _get up goddamn it, put your bloody back into it, don't you give up on me, you bastard_ \-- and dryly unimpressed hours or days after the mission's been complete and the agent is returning his tech -- _it took you bloody long enough, Bond._

"Patience is a virtue, Quartermaster," he purrs and whereas anyone else would've melted or flinched, Q is unmoved as he snarks in return, "God knows you're lacking in that department."

And Bond laughs because the absolute fucking cheek on this little shit.

That Bond feels fond, affectionate for him doesn't even bother him now. Not when Q is all that remains when M succumbs from the cancer, and Bond only thinks of England as home because of the stroppy bastard that puts his weapons back together.

The question of who ruins who is only a matter of who's able to walk away after.

Bond isn't so sure anymore that it'll be him.

He finds that it doesn't bother him as it should, or would have, once upon a time. He thinks it's a sign he's growing as a person. The thought of Q's exasperated expression only makes him smirk.

It goes like this:

Q has an eidetic memory, and along with it, a frightening level of understanding in various subject matter that has all played a role in why he is who he is, and why he's also still alive given the many circumstances he's accepted as his dues in being himself.

One such a circumstance is his regular interactions with Bond, their routine, almost outside of mission briefs and banter on the Comms.

Which leads to this rather obvious conclusion: that: Bond is dangerous. 

Never to England. Never to the Crown. Never to MI6.

But everyone else is in the blast zone.

Q included.

He thinks if he weren't so observant, he wouldn't be as aware of that fact as he is, but as it stands, Bond makes it rather difficult to ignore.

It might be because of all the things Bond _could have_ done while he's been helping Q convert oxygen in the same room for almost a year, Bond's done nothing at all. 

They'll exchange words, of course, in the beginning, but eventually Q's attention will wander or Bond will go quiet. 

He can't remember which comes first.

It's not a complete shift, of course where Bond is quiet because he's gone or Q's attention has been so completely diverted as to forget the man is there at all. If only he could be so lucky.

Q's hyperaware of Bond's presence. It would be foolish not to be. 

Q's seen him kill several men with his bare hands. It's self-preservation is what it is. 

The threat of being attracted to Bond is really just contributing causes to the twitchy survival instincts that have kept Q alive this long.

Not that it does anything but amuse Bond.

"If I'd wanted you dead, don't you think I've had done it already?"

"Is that supposed to flatter me?"

He smirks in reply. Tosser.

Granted, death by James Bond is hardly a mundane way to go. Q wouldn't complain, if that were the case. 

He tells the man so.

Bond drawls, "Do you think I want to kill you?" 

And Q with his eidetic memory replies, "Well, I distinctly remember you threatening to ruin my life a couple of years ago, and beyond destroying my tech and turning me grey, you haven't collected yet."

Bond's exhale of breath is a husky laugh Q feels in the tingle of his spine, the sensitive nape of his neck where the barest hint of Bond's stubble brushes. "And is that what you want, dear Q? Do you want me to collect?"

Despite his cool reply, Q's proceeding swallow is audible, "Get on with it then, do your worst."

Bond chuckles, low and smoky. Q feels it in his knees, his finger tips itch. "Oh, Q, there are many ways to ruin a man."

Q wets his lower lip with his tongue, notches his chin, and says, "Show me."

It goes like this:

Q tastes Bond's smirk before he sees it, and feels him pulse in Q's hand before Q ever sees him smile for real. 

Though that will come in short order, not often, but more than Bond has ever smiled at anyone in years. 

It will bowl Q over every time.

Q will hear his laugh at least once every evening before they go to bed, and before they leave for work. 

It goes like this: 

Every day, Bond will ask -- in the pregnant dusk, in the breaking dawn, in the washed out afternoons -- "Have I ruined you for everyone yet?"

Q's answer will vary.

But Bond knows the truth, and Q doesn't even bother to pretend otherwise.

This is just their routine now.

**Author's Note:**

> I really tried to slow burn a one-shot huh.


End file.
